By Words
by RobinRocks
Summary: Cyanide is, unfortunately, not the worst of Holmes’ poisons. Nor the most frequently used. Mild HolmesxWatson. Oneshot. For jesus-of-suburbia2o2o.


SOOOO... this was written for **jesus-of-suburbia2o2o** for her 15th birthday, which was actually on February 17th, but I was slow and she was forgiving and so here we are on February 21st, hohoho.

I asked her what she wanted me to write and she replied "_Sherlock Holmes_, movie-verse, seduction by words". I tried. She liked my effort regardless (or was just being nice. Idk. XD).

HolmesxWatson, vague-but-not-really-so-vague, yanno?

By Words

Holmes in his element; or _with_ his elements, bent low over his chemistry equipment.

Watson watches, arms folded flat against his chest. The experiment Holmes is doing now is superficial – only a pursuit of interest, or, rather, merely a matter of pursuing a cure for his boredom for ten minutes.

Something with cyanide. Watson allows himself a bitter smile, shoulder blade uncomfortable against the doorframe. Cyanide is, unfortunately, not the worst of Holmes' poisons.

Nor the most frequently used.

The syringe lies hollow on the desk next to him, long forgotten by now. Holmes is particular, methodical. The needle will be cleaned and sterilised with the care of a madman come morning.

(But not the care of a _doctor_, for Holmes, as is his way, will not allow him to touch what does not concern him.)

Ah, and does Watson think he is being _subtle_? He might as well announce his presence verbally, for all the good that his stony silence does. His gaze upon the empty syringe – _empty_, what a shame that it is empty, because it most certainly wasn't before – is physical and oppressive. All of his disapproval, his resentment and his frustration, is behind his gaze, making it noticeable to one such as Sherlock Holmes, who, with his back to him, has known that he has been there all along.

"Do say something, old boy." Holmes, nimble fingers still very much engaged in their delicate task, breaks the silence himself; he bites out the words around his pipe, cold and unlit, there for decoration and not much else.

"Such as what?" Watson replies coldly. "Mind how you go with the deadly poisons, there's a good chap?"

"Something to that effect might be nice – or, at least, I am certain that it would be less distracting than your mere standing there. Truly, if I desired the presence of a street mime, there are plenty to be found out on London's streets." The great detective pauses, chewing thoughtfully on the wood of his pipe. "Ah, but let it be said that I _myself_ am rather versed in the habit of remaining still for long periods of time without uttering a sound. I have found it to be a largely unhelpful skill, when all is said and done. Really, Watson, I do think you might lend your time to a more practical pursuit."

"Is that so?"

At last Watson unfolds his arms and takes his weight from the doorframe, stepping into their shared study and approaching the desk with a deliberateness to his stride. He embroiders his tone with a deadly flair of interest. He knows Holmes and his games all too well by now.

He knows how to play them.

(Or so he thinks.)

"Perhaps you are right," he goes on. "Perhaps I _should_ consider spending my time more wisely."

"That's the spirit." Holmes does not look up from his work.

"_Perhaps_," Watson presses irritably, "I should instead put to use the skills which I have spent so long honing as a doctor to good use and explain to you every damned reason why you should not be injecting that... that _filth_ into yourself night after night!"

"That would serve only to bore me, my dear Watson – on that you have my word."

"Because you already _know_, I expect," Watson replies curtly.

"You are most welcome to believe that."

"Holmes—" Watson begins irritably.

"_Watson_," Holmes cuts in sharply. "Perhaps I have given you the wrong message. When I said 'say something', I did not intend to ask for a lecture on my vices."

"I was hardly—" Watson starts again, really beginning to become rather annoyed.

"_Words_, dear fellow," Holmes sighs, _still_ intent on not letting him finish a sentence. "You rely on them too much. If not bent double over your desk immortalising my deductive efforts with your pen, you are most commonly found attempting to pry polite conversation out of me – that, or you are accusing me of one thing or another and forcing me to defend myself. Watson, pray do not take this the wrong way, but a moment spent in silence with you might in fact be rather nice. Why must you justify your every action, your every waking moment, with language?"

Watson cannot help but be indignant at this – nor can he be sure if Holmes is merely being ironic, for _isn't _it irony, for Sherlock Holmes, who relies on his power to shed light upon the most baffling of mysteries by way of a simple explanation to earn both his living and his name, to mock _his_ so-called dependency on the Queen's English?

(Although it's not as if he isn't aware that Holmes at once both craves the attention Watson lavishes on him with his pen and strangely resents it.)

Ah, but Holmes isn't quite himself tonight. The needle has _more_ than taken care of that. Perhaps he has not even noticed that he has somewhat contradicted himself, given that it was _he_ who beseeched Watson speak instead of standing watching him in irritated silence...

"Very well, then," Watson says primly at length. "I shan't bother you any longer. I mean to retire to my quarters soon anyhow. Try not to make too much of a racket when you're stumbling to bed under the influence of that blasted narcotic, won't you?"

Holmes suddenly goes very quiet and still, slender hands freezing on his chemistry equipment. Watson simply rolls his eyes and begins to pull down his folded-back shirtsleeves as he turns away to leave the room.

"Watson," Holmes says abruptly, "pray wait a moment."

"Why?" Watson asks warily, pausing nonetheless and half turning back to him.

"Words, _words_..." Holmes repeats it like a mantra. "...I apologise. I did not mean to offend you – what I said about your habit of recording our adventures, I mean to say. For what it's worth, I have always believed your accounts to be somewhat fairer than those of The Strand. And, I suppose, I cannot truly criticise your need to ensure that everything which concerns you is correctly documented and categorised by name – you are, after all, both a doctor and a military man, and both professions undoubtedly require a certain level of preciseness. I hope you will not think I was being impertinent."

"Well," Watson says, slightly surprised by the apology, "that's... that's quite all right—"

"However," Holmes cuts in, clearly not even listening to him, "I do feel that I must point out that words can be an inaccurate method of documentation nonetheless." The detective finally turns to him, a gloss of sweat across his brow, and removes his pipe from his mouth, tapping it against the edge of the desk. "Strange, isn't it, when we rely on language to communicate most everything?"

"I do not see what you are getting at," Watson says, folding his arms again. He is tired – both in general and of Holmes and his antics.

"Consider," Holmes replies, apparently only too happy (and condescending) to spell it out, "how easily some words can be mixed up – homophones, for example, can cause you to mishear and therefore completely misinterpret the words of another. And then, also, there is the little matter of spelling – swap one letter for another and you will get a totally different word. Potato can become tomato just as easily as—"

"Holmes, I am in _no_ mood for your word games," Watson snaps wearily.

"Game?" Holmes suddenly laughs a little and he leans forward, inclining close to Watson (who really hasn't gotten very far despite his best efforts). "Is it really a game when deduction and seduction can be so easily confused, Watson?"

Watson looks back at him, startled. Holmes is grinning at him, much too close, and, as always, Watson doesn't like it. He doesn't like it when Holmes behaves like this—

Because he doesn't know how seriously he can take him.

"Go back to your poison," he hisses finally, pushing Holmes away a little too roughly.

"Which one?" Holmes asks lightly, twirling his pipe around his fingers; unperturbed, as usual, by Watson's rebuke of his manner.

"All of them," Watson says coldly, and he turns on his heel and leaves. "_Goodnight_, Holmes."

Holmes waves lazily in response; Watson either doesn't see it or pretends not to, closing the study door rather firmly behind him.

"Go back to my poison," Holmes muses, and he looks at the syringe fondly.

It _is_ fun to infuriate the old boy, after all.

(Later Sherlock Holmes goes back to his poison and crawls under the sheets and runs cyanide-stained fingers over him with all the grace of someone who has no idea what he is doing.)

* * *

YEAH.

Audilee, glad you liked it regardless of my rampant English-Literature-student-stroll-down-Digression-Lane.

Happy (late) Birthday!!!111!!111!!!1!


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